


As Luck Would Have It

by pallas_or_bust



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander - All Media Types
Genre: Book 8: The Ionian Mission, Character Death, Gen, Ghosts, death au, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallas_or_bust/pseuds/pallas_or_bust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Tom Pullings, killed in battle, must come back to deal with the reprecussions of his death. Spoilers for the last chapter of The Ionian Mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Luck Would Have It

**Author's Note:**

> I started reading the Aubrey-Maturin series several months ago, but I've only just now gotten comfortable enough with the style to try my hand at fic. This is such a lovely (and skillful!) community--please let me know if you have any comments, suggestions for improvement, historical nitpicks, etc. I'd love to hear from you :)

“Come on with me,” roared Captain Aubrey, and easily cleared the gap between the _Kitabi_ and the _Torgud_. Tom Pullings followed him onto the quarterdeck rail, taking the head of a surprised Turk half-off before the smoke of their last broadside had cleared. Not so lucky with the rest of the men; it was clear that the crew of the _Torgud_ was not nearly so cowed as those aboard the _Kitabi_ , standing shoulder to shoulder so thick you could scarce swing your sword, and Tom barely blocked the cutlass-stroke that came in from his right. He nearly slipped; the deck had an inch of blood-slick seawater on it: the _Torgud_ was slowly sinking.

Next to him, a pike came hurtling out of the press of straight at the captain, but the captain brought down his heavy cavalry sabre, breaking the thing in two. Jack fought like a tiger, though bleeding from his forehead; his luck was in, and with it the luck of the whole _Surprise_ : the wild excitement of battle was on all of them, Tom included, and he could barely keep himself from laughing as he blocked a second blow from the cutlass and then drove his blade home into its owner. Mowett came aboard where the man had fallen, and through the smoke and the chaos of battle the two lieutenants exchanged flashing grins; for both knew that this was Tom’ chance to get his step at last.

One of the Turks in front of Jack stepped towards Tom with his arms drawn back for a powerful doublehanded blow; Tom dodged into an empty space and made to thrust home; the blow missed, and Mowett took the man’s right arm off, but Tom’ foot caught something, unnoticed amidst all the smoke and the gore, and he went sprawling on the bloodslick deck. Jack’s eyes went wide at the sight of something behind him, and Tom Pullings’ world went very suddenly black. 

* * *

 

He was back in the _Surprise_ when he awoke, feeling uncommon well-rested for after a battle; usually his whole body ached, particularly his shoulders where all his tight nervous energy accumulated before the moment of action. Stretching luxuriously, he noticed he was not in his usual place with the rest of the lieutenants; this was the orlop where the Doctor plied his trade. And here was young Williamson, resting in a hammock: the boy’s left arm ended at the elbow, and Tom’ heart gave a sad lurch in his chest: he had not seen the boy wounded during the battle, being so concerned with getting as much sail on the _Surprise_ as possible. Still, Williamson had colour in his cheeks, and not the false, high colour of fever but the gentle rosy cast of the young; Tom was confident the Doctor had set him up very well.

With a start he realized that he did not remember very much further, his memories muddled and confusing; he knew he had gone over the rails with Jack, but what then? Had they taken the _Torgud_? Would he get his step?

He must have taken a very shrewd blow to the head, but doubtless he was recovered by now. “Doctor!” he called out. “Doctor, I am going abovedeck. Please do not worry for me; I feel strong as an ox.”

Williamson’ eyes flashed open; a moment later his face drained completely of the colour Tom had so happily noted. Tom bent down, remembering that laudanum could sometimes bring on nightmares, hallucinations. Williamson’s eyes tracked him steadily, though his whole body trembled, and he made a noise approaching a squeak.

“There, there, now, Mr. Williamson,” Tom said, stooping over so as to cast a less imposing figure, “It is quite all right; it is only me.”

His intention to reassure went quite unaccomplished: the boy’s eyes rolled in his head, and he fell back in a faint.

Tom frowned. He had not at all meant to disturb young Williamson; would have to make a full confession to the Doctor. Finding him was not hard, for he was humming a snatch under his breath that even unmusical Tom recognized as the cello part to one of his and the captain’s duets; his primary occupation, though, was whetting his collection of surgical scalpels after what had no doubt been a long day’s work.

“Excuse me, Doctor,” said Tom. The man did not hear him, too engrossed in his tune; Tom tapped him on the shoulder and repeated himself, a little louder this time.

Doctor Maturin turned very suddenly, the scalpel flashing in his hand. “Who is that?”

“Why, Doctor, it is only me,” Tom said petulantly; usually he held the Doctor in much too great an esteem to take such a tone, but the Doctor’s joke, whatever it was, was exceeding feeble, and he was already confused and annoyed.

“Tom,” said the Doctor, in an entirely voice, one full of wonder and tenderness. His face smoothed over into an expression Tom found entirely inscrutable. “I do beg your pardon, Tom, I find myself very tired. How do you fare?” 

* * *

 

“Fatal,” Tom repeated, for the third or fourth time.

“Almost instantly so. And so I hope you see now, my dear, why I was surprised to see you.” The Doctor sat on his own sea-chest smoking a cigar, addressing Tom as naturally as if they had been seated across the gunroom table from one another.

“It certainly explains Williamson. Poor little bru—boy.”

“Yes, he has already had a very trying day, and I do not think ghosts are much in the article of his experience. Nor are they in mine, to be perfectly honest.”

“I suppose they did not bring up the topic when you were studying medicine.”

“Alas, your situation was not dreamt of in my philosophy,” said the Doctor, a faint smile forming around the cigar. “The most common folk superstition is that ghosts come back because they have some sort of unfinished business, most often in order to haunt those who have wronged them. Are you feeling particularly vengeful?”

Tom honestly pondered the question for several seconds, because of his very high opinion of the Doctor’s learning, but he felt no more reason to be vengeful at the end of this period than at the beginning; he was thoroughly stumped. “Why,” he said, “I do not know what cause I might have to be vengeful _for_.”

“Someone did stab you to death, Tom. Quite recently, I might add.”

“Oh, _that_ ,” said Tom, with a wave of his hand, “That was not personal. I would have done the same for him and called it a good day. A very good day, in fact.” He sighed. “I suppose there is no chance of getting my step now.”

“I would say it is doubtful. One might almost say unprecedented.”

“That is the saddest bit about this whole business. Just when I am about to get in an action that will have me promoted to commander I get knocked on the head.” He sighed again; but, though he was not quite so cheerful as Jack, he had much of the Navy’s natural resilient sprits and tendency to look forward rather than always woefully back; and so, even though he was dead, and his prospects for promotion ruined, he asked, “Do you suppose I will have very much to do, being a ghost? I do not wish to frighten people, or avenge myself on anyone, but I suppose I could keep watch just as well as ever, and manage the sails.”

Even as the words came out of his mouth he realized how pathetic they sounded; like he were grasping at straws, like he wanted to play at being a live man. The poignant unfairness of it came rushing upon him, for the keeping of the watch and the setting of the sails were doubtless live men’s jobs, no province of the dead, and yet though he was a dead man he still wished to be alive, to do what live men did, to inhabit their world and share in their daily tasks and tedia. Like a blow to the stomach he realized that he was no longer properly a part of the _Surprise_ , that his continued presence here was a shocking aberration, and his heart wrenched with sadness: the strongest sadness he had felt since he was a tiny boy saying goodbye to his mother before going to sea for the first time. He clapped one hand over his mouth, so that the Doctor would not see it twist, and turned his head away to hide the tears welling up hot and unbidden in his eyes.

The Doctor could not see him as well as he feared; he perceived only a faint glow with the general character of the late Tom Pullings, whereas young Williamson had received only a strong impression of violence, peril, and death, heightened, as Tom had supposed, by the influence of laudanum. Nevertheless he sensed the spirit’s distress, which was coming off in waves, and felt its keen desire for privacy.

“I must attend to the captain’s wounds now,” he said, standing and stubbing out his cigar. “I am very glad to have gotten the chance to speak with you, Tom, and if—“

The rest of the awkward farewell was mercifully cut off by Tom’ wretched cry of, “Captain Aubrey—he is hurt? Oh, but of course he was—you saw it yourself, Tom Pullings, you great fool!”

A most peculiar sensation as a late edition of some impressive scientific book was swatted through the ghostly impression of his head, and the Doctor was crying out, “Fie upon you, Tom Pullings, fie! You will not blame yourself for anything. In this whole scenario clearly you have taken the worse wounds, and I would make Jack wait another hour if I thought I knew the way to do you any good. But as much as the men might deny it curing death is beyond my reach, and my expertise beyond it is null. I hope you will wait for me to return, and if you are not here when I return I shall assume a choir of angels has taken you off.” 

* * *

 

In fact no choir of angels came, and nor did the Doctor. Tom waited in a dark corner of the orlop, out of sight of Williamson and the other patients, as three bells went by. The minutes needled at him cruelly, for he was used to a state of high activity, and his mind rebelled at the lack of stimulation. Too, there was his nagging anxiety and lowness of spirits, which conspired to make his wait interminable.

He did determine that he was giving off a faint light, and by trial and error he was able to brighten this light or lessen it to the point of imperceptibility. The task quickly grew tedious. What he longed for, what he really longed for, was the sight of the stars. With his light at its lowest, he crept up the ladder to the deck.

Immediate disappointment: there were no stars; it was early afternoon, the sky a brilliant blue with scudding white fluffy clouds, the breeze firm but agreeable. The day after the battle, then. Ridiculous, to be dead on such a day.

He toured round the ship, inspecting the damage: poor _Surprise_ really had taken a terrible mauling. On his last circuit he heard the phrase “—coming in pretty high, to tell a man what he may or may not feel guilty about, and in his own cabin—“ uttered in Jack Aubrey’s unmistakable carrying voice. There was a hoarse edge to it he did not understand; the captain had quite recovered from his cold.

It was not in Tom Pullings’ character to eavesdrop, but the bulkheads were so thin, and the captain’s voice so penetrating, that a little eavesdropping was unavoidable simply as a consequence of being on the ship. Indeed, most of the men on deck were wearing wooden expressions as they carried out their tasks, their minds clearly elsewhere as the doctor’s reply came: “Be that as it may, Jack, you may wish to sit down; I have some rather astonishing news regarding…”

The deckhands’ faces twitched in consternation as the Doctor’s voice dropped so low as to be inaudible. Tom, for his part, realized that the subject of conversation could only be himself, and so he did not feel half so guilty as he crept closer and closer to the bulkhead, in fact resting his ear against the wood.

A curious fizzing sensation, like drinking champagne (which he had done exactly once), but concentrated in the ear pressed up against the bulkhead. With a start Tom realized that the ear was not squashed against the wood, like an ordinary ear might do, but was instead beginning to pass through it. At the instant of his realization that he and the wood were not quite as solid _vis a vis_ one another as they had been when he was alive, it was as though the wall dissolved entirely, and he staggered through into the cabin itself.

Instantly he dimmed his light as far as it would go, mortally afraid of discovery, for even though he was far beyond Earthly punishment that was not enough to overcome his fear of Captain Aubrey’s disapproval. The subject of conversation was indeed himself; but the doctor was approaching it delicately, indirectly, and Captain Aubrey, seated, bandages across his forehead and ribs, was doing a poor job of covering up his impatience that the Doctor reach a point.

Tom started in concern at the sight of his captain: it was not so much that he was wounded (for it seemed Jack was always wounded somehow or another) as that he looked utterly wretched: he had missed any number of places shaving, his hair was escaping from its customary tail, and his eyes were rimmed in red, bloodshot, and swollen. In another man Tom would call these symptoms of weeping. In Jack Aubrey, they likely signified extreme fatigue or some kind of allergic attack.

But then, as the Doctor approached the heart of the matter, something extraordinary happened. The captain sagged in his seat, looking shrunken, diminished, a dozen years older. With one broad hand he covered his eyes; soundlessly, his shoulders began to shake.

In a blank shock Tom stood there. He had seen the mask of captainship ripped away from Jack by injury and concussion, had seen it drop from his artless unclever fingers after three drinks too many on shore, had even seen it guardedly lowered apurpose when Jack wished to consult on naval matters with someone almost like an equal. But even then Tom had always been conscious that they were not ever be equals, would never be, until Tom got his step.

“He was two feet in front of me, Stephen,” said the captain, voice so low and muffled by his neckcloth Tom could barely make it out. “I could have blocked the stroke myself if only I had seen it coming. Or—or if I had stepped into that space, instead of him…”

“It came from behind him, and he was facing you,” said the Doctor, “So as to how you are possibly supposed to have seen it coming, I have no idea. And if you had stepped into that space, then you surely would have received the blow yourself.”

The captain’s expression was so black as he mopped his eyes with a handkerchief, it looked almost like he might have preferred such a stroke; something very dangerous in the Doctor’s eyes prevented him from saying anything. Evidently the Doctor decided it was time to obey Nelson’s advice, for he threw out all conversational maneuvers and said, “Listen now, Jack.”

A flash of great annoyance passed over the captain’s face, and abruptly Tom’s stomach gave a miserable guilty lurch. He should not be witnessing this confrontation: he was an intruder, a foul piece of work, an infamous sneak—

In the hastiness of his retreat he forgot to focus on dimming his light, and moreover clouds had passed over the sun while he was inside, plunging the deck into purple shade. With a horrid fizzing feeling he passed straight through Preserved Killick and out the other side as the man carried a plate of toasted cheese to the cabin. Killick whirled around, only barely rescuing the cheese, eyes big as saucers; immediately he caught sight of Tom’ form. For a moment, dead, yawning silence, and then Killick let loose a scream like a soprano banshee that has just stepped on an upturned tack, and the deck erupted into pandaemonium.

The door to Captain Aubrey’s cabin flew open and the captain strode through, radiating awful authority even as he hastily stowed his handkerchief behind his back. “What in hell is—“

He stopped as suddenly as if he had just slammed into a wall.

Tom hung his head. Increasing his own luminance as much as possible, so that Captain Aubrey might see him a little better, and raising his voice so that the entire crew might hear, he said, “It is Tom Pullings, sir, and I am very sorry. I do not know why I am here, but I promise it was not to cause you or the crew anything in the article of trouble, sir. I am not going to be one of those wailing miserable vengeful Jonah spirits.”

Blank incredulity greeted this statement. Tom cast his eyes about the crew, trying to gauge their mood. There was old Joe Plaice, hands shaking; there was poor Killick, clutching at his cheese-tray and almost weeping with fear. Rowan, the officer of the watch, looked as though he might faint; and Mowett, come up from below to see what the fuss was about, turned almost as pale when his eyes fell on his old friend.

He tried again. “I am very sorry for causing you any fear. Lord knows it is not my intention—“

He was quite thrown when Captain Aubrey strode right up next to him and cried, “Well, did you hear him? Tom Pullings, your old shipmate, says you have nothing to fear from him. Have you ever known Tom Pullings to steer you wrong? To play you false?”

“Never!” shouted Mowett, looking around daggers at any man who might dare say otherwise.

None dared; many heads were nodding sagely.

“Well, then it stands to reason that his spirit is no threat to you. Now stop standing there like a bunch of frightened ninny lubbers and get back to work!”

The captain, when he had the moral authority, was a practically a force of nature, and the hands jumped to it with vigor, although still stealing a large number of glances at the luminous presence on the deck whenever it was thought the man wasn’t looking.

“Tom, a word in my cabin, if you would?” asked Captain Aubrey. “Although I certainly cannot claim you under my command anymore.”

“Of course, sir,” Tom said, stepping inside the old familiar room. The Doctor mentioned to Jack that he was going below to check on the wounded; he had neglected them for too long already. Killick deposited the cheese and fled. Jack did not eat.

“Please don’t go without on my account,” Tom said, gesturing towards the plate.

“Oh, I have no appetite,” Captain Aubrey replied, pushing the cheese away. “How are you, Tom? Can I—is there anything I can do for you?” His attitude was brisk, almost businesslike, though certainly just as warm as Tom had known him, and he wondered at it. Just moments before he had seen this man shattered, weeping silently. His face was still puffy, eyes red, and yet here he was to all outward appearance totally composed.

Tom was thrown. “I—I—“ He paused. Being dead was no time for beating around the bush; if he had something to say now, he had better say it, for he might not get another chance. “This was not your fault.”

Jack’s face froze in the middle of a forced smile. “We are not here to discuss whose fault anything was. Now please, Tom, tell me: is there anything you would like me to do? I am just in the midst of—that is, it is customary for the captain of the ship to write a letter addressing the… the deceased’s next of kin. What would you like me to tell your wife?”

Tom swallowed a painful strangling lump in his throat, his thoughts suddenly half a world away. “I wrote a letter for her myself, sir, in case something should happen. You will find it in my trunk; Mowett knows where it is. If you could be sure that it gets to her, that is all I should need.”

Jack nodded, looking down, and now that Tom had twigged to it, he could tell that the man was trying valiantly to hold back tears.  

“I knew it was a risk,” Tom said, low and fast. “I always knew. Men die every day in the Navy. There is no other man I would have been happier to serve with than you. And truth be told, sir, it all happened so fast; there is nothing at all you could have done.”

“I could have declined the action,” Jack said, then, at Tom’s look of disgust, continued, “Or I could have decided not to board the _Torgud_. We had mauled her so badly at that point—she was already sinking.”

“If you had declined to board the _Torgud_ , I would never have forgiven you for it and you know that, sir,” said Tom. He had certainly crossed all lines of propriety, even between a lieutenant and a captain who had served together for a very long time, but he felt that, being dead, he was free to take a certain liberty. “That ship was my chance at my step and things did not work out in my favor. Luck was not with us.”

“I asked too much of her,” Jack said hoarsely, and Tom got the feeling that he was not speaking of the _Surprise_ , not least because the weatherly ship had fair flown under them before the battle; you could not have asked for better.

“Of who, sir?

“My luck,” Jack muttered. “Do not go telling the Doctor, now—he will not understand, thinks it is just superstition. But I have suspected for a while now that my good luck has run out. It was too much to ask, the _Kitabi_ and the _Torgud_ both. There had to be a reckoning somewhere, and by God, Tom, I am sorry it had to be you.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Tom cried, bringing Jack up short. “Are you saying it was _your_ bad luck that killed me?”

Jack looked brought by the lee. His only reply was to swallow convulsively.

“Well, that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Just because I am your lieutenant does not mean I am governed by your luck—does not mean that I do not have luck of my own. And anyway, any fool could see your luck was in yesterday, with you striding about the deck like you were ten feet tall and chopping pikes in half like they were made of straw! If it was not in my stars to live, then so be it, but do not think it reflects in any way upon yours.”

“But if that is the case,” Jack replied in a passion, “my luck being in, and yours being out, then where is the fairness in that? If a man has been lucky, as I most certainly have been, then reason stands it he must become unlucky, and if he has been less lucky, as you have been, then surely his luck deserves to change?”

“Well as for that I am not sure. It could be that you are running on credit with your good luck, and that is certainly none of my business. But Captain,” Tom said, with a short laugh, “How is it you suppose that, before yesterday’s unfortunate event, I was in any way _un_ lucky?” 

* * *

 

“I am sorry, Doctor, I did not quite hear that,” Tom said. They were on deck, Tom having left the captain to his cabin at Jack’s own request; the man was looking thoughtful indeed, and seemed a little more at peace with himself over Tom’s death. “I imagine it was those silly fellows with their oratorio again.”

“I was saying that you can recognize the individuals in a family unit, or pod, by their markings and by the distinctive patterns of scars and nocks in their dorsal fins.” Doctor Maturin pointed out a dolphin using his still-burning cigar. “That one, for example, I take to be a matriarch of the group, for she—what oratorio?”

“Why, the one by that Handel fellow, the one they were…” Tom trailed off midsentence. The tune had become indelibly associated in his mind with the toothless lubbers and their choir, but in the light of the scattering of two-thirds of _Worcester_ ’s crew including the toothless lubbers, the transfer to _Surprise_ , and their new urgent mission, practice upon the oratorio had entirely ceased—had been suspended for some time now. But then why had he heard…

With a start he realized there was a pier stretching away to his left. Nor was it an ordinary pier, for it was keeping steady with the ship, and she was doing a good seven knots. Very far out along the pier, half-obscured by mist, stood the silhouette of another ship, a mere print of darker blue against the hazy sky. The lookout had made no cry, and the Doctor did not give any sign of having seen it.

_I must go there_ , thought Tom: it was not as though he had been ordered to go; rather, it was like he had always dreamed of this ship, had always known he would voyage with her, and only now did he realize it. He wished to be aboard immediately. His heart was fair skipping.

“Tom?”

“I am well, Doctor,” Tom said, still half-entranced at the sight. “My business is done. My ship has come in. Please give everyone my love.”

He clambered down the side of the _Surprise_ , boots thumping against the solid oak of the pier. He could feel time slipping by around himself, like he was a still stone with its tides flowing over. As he walked forward, the world seemed to grow less substantial, the sound of the waves and the heat of the sun receding.

A stab of sadness too fresh to be nostalgia hit him, and he turned full around to look back at his shipmates. Though it seemed only seconds to him, to them it must have been longer. To a man they crowded the larboard rail of the _Surprise_ , or perched up in the rigging where they could see; many waved handkerchiefs. The Doctor had something small clutched in his hand so hard his knuckles were white, but his face was as happy as Tom had ever seen it, albatross sightings included. Captain Aubrey gave him a salute, which he returned in fine form before turning and waving to all the men.

“Goodbye, everyone,” he whispered.

He walked the last twenty paces through thickening mists all alone, as the ship slowly emerged through the swirling white clouds. She was a frigate, very trim and neat, much like the _Surprise_ : the perfect ship, the most beautiful he could have asked for. Tears came to his eyes, tears of happiness now. He clambered aboard his first command, and immediately her anchor was raised, her sails adjusted, with just a flash of thought from him: _I’m ready when you are_.

He did not know where he was going, but it was clear she did.

“Right,” he said. “Take me home.”


End file.
